irritus perturbatio
by nimuelsa
Summary: She cannot understand why ghosts of emotions haunt them so. Namine-centric.
1. Chapter 1

Anger is a strange thing, Naminé thinks, even as she watches Axel pace back and forth, apparently affected, on some level (not emotionally, perhaps, biologically, maybe she'd bring it up with Marluxia) about Roxas.

She hasn't experienced it, but it doesn't look pleasant, what with the way Axel scrunches up his face and digs his nails into his palms, leaving bright red half-moon indents in his skin, jaw clenched. She's tried to keep her jaw clenched, but it's unpleasant, so she doesn't try.

Instead she draws. She draws whatever comes to mind, which isn't very much. She draws a mattress of vines, a paradise of golden treasures, a brilliant white light surrounded by pale, almost-unnoticeable shadowy hands. She doesn't get why they're confused sometimes, puzzled by her paintings, sculptures, and charcoal touches in her room.

Once, Vexen asked, _why do you do it?_ She'd looked back, towered over by him, and picked up another color, another translucent, lighter, feathery ivory, and pursed her lips thoughtfully.

 _It feels right_. And then he'd stared at her for a few minutes more, and she thought she ought to be intimidated, but really, after all, they'd never hurt her, and Vexen wasn't terribly mean. She kept at her mural of a brilliant light, and pale, translucent, grey hands that reached towards the light.

She remembers it most vividly, because Vexen had that interesting look in his eye, as if he had some shadow of emotion within him, confusion perhaps, and almost ridicule. He hadn't spoken since, and he kept guard, but instead had that impossible-to-pin-down look in his eyes.

Axel paces and almost knocks over her sculpture of his weapon, he prefers it over the others, watching it with a strange glint in his eye she didn't bother to interpret. They couldn't feel after all, and whatever they did, it was because of the shadows of the former heart.

She contemplates the bunched shoulders, the constant yet repetitive movement of his arms, clenched jaw, that strange fire that seemed to ghost over his own weapon's flames shining in his eye. She begins a sketch of a delicate flame, the color purple and blue, tiny sparks of red, and a brilliant light again.

She doesn't know why brilliant white lights feature so often in her creations, and she doesn't mind either. The flame is, in her mind, in a constant state, even within anger, it still leaps and burns the same, but it reaches towards something.

There is no sound, no sound other than Axel's quiet, fast pacing and the sound of Naminé's lead _scritchscritch_ ing across her pad of paper. She never really plans it out, her creations, she merely goes by her mind's image, which might be unorthodox, may be orthodox, she doesn't really _care_ either way.

(if she can feel, she would feel that there are tears, salty liquid, dripping down her face, even as a small child weeps inside her)

She flips the pad, not finishing the sketch. Something about the delicate flame irks her, and she doesn't want to finish it, so she doesn't. Instead, she finds an old sketch, one she doesn't remember drawing, yet her drawing style, softer lines than reality, adding ribbons and paler hues, is evident.

It's Organization XIII, but it's not drawn by her. Yet it's her drawing style, the feathery mess atop Roxas' hair, a slight curve of lips (she thinks it's called a smirk, but she's unsure) on Axel's face, Larxene's eyes which she never managed to replicate, yet there's a sting, a biting touch added to her softened features, Xemnas stands in the background, ever imposing, and countless other tiny touches that scream of Naminé's style, but she didn't draw it.

She doesn't know how it came to be. It irks her some, but the feeling, negative, is something she is all too skilled in ignoring, quashing the feeling away from her and it dies swiftly. Yet the foreign feeling, not being irked, still stays, like a cloak she cannot discard.

"Burn it." Her voice is hoarse, even as she offers the pad (only two pages with drawings) and he burns it, his anger still evident even as he paces, wisps of flames licking about his fingers.

There is something, a new, odd feeling that wells in her chest, but she doesn't listen.

(the child bangs her hands against the walls, her tears dripping down her face even as she screams, her voice hoarse and overused, desperation and a need to make it _right_ -)

Anger is a strange thing, and she doesn't care to try it. It's useless after all.

a.n. I started writing it because I was angry but then it just turned out weird. Naminé, in this version, was held captive, but she never connected to her emotions to the level we ordinarily have. Naminé's heavily influenced by a somewhat more humane Organization XIII, and thus, she is loyal to them.

They didn't use scare tactics, they falsified a story where they were guards and her parents died and blahblah. She doesn't _care_ and the child is Kairi, and her age is intended as well. Naminé's strange in how completely well she controls her emotions, and she ignores them.

I just, I'm pretty sure I butchered the storyline, but I also never played any of the games and the wikis are only so helpful. None of my friends actually play it, they prefer Final Fantasy, which, unless I'm asking for tips how to play the games and advance more quickly etc, they're not that helpful.


	2. indelible

Her favorite to draw is Zexion. His profile is on the more masculine side, with half his fringe draping over his steel-grey eye, and an unsmiling pair of lips, and pale skin typical of their world without sunshine, Castle Oblivion. He had no need for sleep, though she if he had, he'd certainly have what Larxene called her eyebags, panda eyes. His face is the closest to emotionless out of them, and it makes it much easier to draw him.

Today however, he has a leather-bound book, one that has hundreds of pages, each page clearly worn though few creases mar it. She looks at the volume, a slight irksome imitation of feeling welling up. She's planned to sketch Zexion, and since she has a rotation of guards, changing often, she can't rely on it.

Thus her annoyance, which is already slipping away, Zexion hasn't been back for a few days. And Demyx's profile, perpetually smiling, Larxene's features, eternally in some expression, never being the same for more than a few minutes, too little to capture a portrait and Axel never obligated for any of her requests unless it was an obvious addition to her room, such as a sculpture or a large painting. It irks her, to have this cumbersome addition when she wants to have an unfettered visual of him.

She bites the inside of her right cheek for a moment, the pain escalating until she deems it warning enough for her. She rarely interacts unless they initiate it, which lately they have been. Strange. She notes it, absently, picking out a pen.

She merely draws his face then, and for some reason- _no_ it was because his features kept moving – it was impossible to capture. She scowls, the unconscious slight gritting of teeth and knit of her eyebrows, and crumples up the paper. She uses ink, only ink for Zexion, since it fit him so well.

He was precise, factual, succinct, what he said never contradicted his previous statements, sometimes taking his time to reply. She never draws him with lead or paints him, and drawing him with ink fits him to the point where she reflexively grabs it from the pile of neatly sorted supplies.

She takes an easel, plus a boxed set of paints, and a few brushes, plus a container to hold water in and neatly holds it so that the easel has everything propped on it. She pops the map into her mouth for safekeeping and walks out.

Zexion closes the book, and dutifully follows her to the balcony where she sets down her things and sits on the ground to paint. She hasn't finished this painting yet, an abstract, odd project she's unsure of what means, or if it would be at all relevant.

It's three mirrors, with a trio of duos, making six of them in all. In the first, clearest mirror, is a healthy bunch of flowers that Marluxia's grown in her room, out of sheer boredom, with a strange fruit in the middle of the delicate blossoms. In the second, more indistinct, is a bird, with purple streaks, with skeleton wings. She doesn't know what to make of it, but it irritates her if an idea is left in her mind without any respite, so she pours it out into new works. There's dozens of unfinished works in her room.

She paints smoky edges, glass melting into mist, because the third mirror is a total mystery to her. It eludes her, unlike the mist, which she feels should be more difficult, and she leaves the third a bland white compared to the colorful others.

When she deems the project as complete as it can be, because it needs to dry, and she takes the easel carefully, not to move the painting. Zexion follows her like a shadow, his steps either silent or mirroring hers eerily.

The next day when she wakes, all her creations are gone.

a.n. _so_ , I remembered this fic and wow, has it been three months? I added a few lines, edited bits and pieces that I'll fix up later. Everything does symbolize something, and no, pairings will be in the backburner. Reviews would be fabulous. Just like you.


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